Blind and Lame
by forgetmenotjimmy
Summary: Draco wakes up blind after a mission went terribly wrong but is reassured by his Healer that he will see again, eventually. Wait, his Healer is Weasel? It's going to be a long road to recovery! Warning: language, violence and eventual slash
1. Waking Into Darkness

Chapter 1 – Waking Into Darkness

He couldn't open his eyes, something tight over them keeping them shut. A blindfold? Oh Gods, what happened? The last he could remember was a flash of brilliant light, that smug pug-faced git leering over his body- Oh! That bastard! No, no, no! Mouth grimacing and heart racing he strained his ears, whole body tense as he waited for the final blow. But nothing. What was happening?

Lifting his arm took a lot of effort but eventually he felt his fingers connect with a smooth material on his face, covering his eyes. Bandages? Felt like it. But he couldn't be sure. Groaning, he dropped the heavy arm again, now feeling tight bands over his chest as well and a cool kind of paste underneath them pulsing slightly. Yep. Bandages. He was lying on something soft, a bed perhaps? What had happened? It definitely didn't seem like he'd been captured. The surroundings lent themselves more to a hospital: warm room, comfortable bed and no restraints. Trying not to move his bound eyes, he gulped trying to moisten his dry throat as he registered the ache of his whole body, every muscle throbbing and twingeing. His legs were especially weak and he could barely even move them. He thought vaguely about attempting to call out and ask for help, but he was so tired, giving up the losing battle he fell into unconsciousness.

Sometime later, a soft murmuring pulled him back into reality and the darkness. He was still blind and tired, so tired… Fighting, flashing lights, twisting bodies, in danger, knocked to the ground….What had happened? His ears struggled to pick up the sounds next to him. He didn't know what had happened and couldn't understand the words, the voice too quiet and soft; but he recognised the soothing tone and so let the stream of sound lull him back to his weird dreams.

Was that a male voice? He was losing track of how many times he'd heard that soft voice beside him. It seemed like he'd been waking and then falling back into troubled sleep for months though he had no way of knowing. Drowsily, he recognised a few words but forgot them almost instantly. His hearing must have been affected by…by what? The last thing he remembered was taking out a group of Death Eaters in one of their rank lairs. He'd been doing quite well, managing to take out all three before a yell and flash of light from behind him had reminded him of the fourth. Lying weakly on the floor he'd cursed himself as he'd remembered who it was: Nott! As darkness had engulfed him he'd thought that he was dying and wasn't sure how to feel about it. Looking back, he knew that he'd been scared, but sad about dying? Not really. His life wasn't unbearable but that didn't mean it really had a point. Back in the unknown location with the unknown guardian, the murmured reassurances came to an end and then he heard footsteps leading away and a door creaking before the footsteps faded. His body twitched, rising a little to call the footsteps back before he decided to wait until next time.

Laying back into the soft mattress he felt his muscles relax and his lips twitched upwards a little. There would be a next time, even though he didn't know who the voice belonged to, he knew that he could trust them. Now he'd finished panicking about what had happened he started to notice things about the room he was in. It was quiet, very quiet. In fact, all he could hear was his own slow breaths and distant clinks from somewhere outside the room. Was he in a private ward? But no, even in his own room he'd be able to hear the hospital outside, wouldn't he? The door opened and the footsteps returned.

"Oh good, you're awake! Hungry?" Stomach rumbling, he caught the smell of chicken and his mouth began to water. He heard the sounds of someone sitting down in a squeaky chair beside the bed and concentrated on understanding the irritatingly cheery voice. "Now I'm sorry about this but I'll need to feed you, being blind and all." Snorting a little at the indignity, Draco opened his mouth regardless, just grateful for- Wait, he knew that voice! Wrinkling his forehead in concentration he finally recognised it. Weasley! Weasley was his Healer? But why? What on earth was that loser doing playing nurse? Who authorised it? So many questions began fighting each other for his attention. But then that stupid voice asked him to open wide and he swallowed pride and indignation in favour for delicious chicken soup. It was quite hard eating without seeing, even if someone else was putting the soup right up to your mouth so all of the blond's concentration was taken up with not appearing stupid; his face burned as some of the soup dribbled down his chin but he silently thanked the weasel for not commenting, simply wiping the drops of soup off his face gently. After he'd eaten he felt so weary, he decided just to relax for a moment before demanding the fool explain himself. But then that voice began to fade and he surrendered himself to asleep.

….

He had no idea how long he'd been dipping in and out of consciousness, all he knew was the was now awake, and bored. He'd been hearing noises from downstairs for a while, so knew that it must be daytime, or just an insomniac, he shivered, Weasel. Despite his boredness, however, he didn't call out for the ginger troll; he would have to be dying of boredom before he'd stoop to that! For something to do, he went over his situation with all the information he currently had.

He had been employed by the Law Enforcement Department at the Ministry to assist in an investigation into some illegal potion smuggling. After the War he'd been cleared of all charges of Death Eater activity due to his age and lack of actual war crimes, however, that did not make finding a job any easier than if he had gone to prison. Without his father's connections, in fact, due to his father's connections, he was facing a wall of rejections for work at the Ministry. For the first few years he'd had to pick at the scraps whilst surviving on his mother's savings – all of his father's wealth having been seized by the Ministry. But those had been hard years which he didn't care to ever remember. Eventually it had been Pansy who had inspired him, by suggesting that he use his skills – his knowledge of dark magic objects and practitioners along with his stealth and cunning – to his advantage. So with the last of his mother's money he had set up a small private detective business that only really consisted of himself. He'd got a few jobs and business had been steady until the Ministry had taken an interest. Due to both his informal detective work and knowledge of the underworld, he'd often been asked for information on suspects and soon received an offer to do an undercover job for the Auror Department. Although still fuming at the treatment of him and his mother after the War, he accepted graciously and it went well. Kept on as an informal agent, he'd done a few jobs for them since, meaning that five years after he lost everything he had a semblance of a life, some income, a small place on Diagon Alley and no friends. His pride was now in shreds.

So when a few weeks ago they asked him to do another job, he'd accepted in the contemptuous way he always did. After some tailing and interrogating, he'd finished this particular job after collecting all the available information; he should have reported back and let the Aurors take care of the arresting. But something had drawn him back into the lair and into that battle. One Death Eater in particular who he just couldn't allow to go down without at least punching him once. In the silence of that unknowable room, he shook his head, he couldn't think about that ungodly being without spiralling into an uncontrollable rage. Instead, he recalled the end of the desperate battle in that rank cellar. The first had been surprised and knocked out without any trouble, the next took a few shots whilst simultaneously fighting the other but all in all it hadn't taken him that long to stun them as well. Stupidly, he'd been smirking to himself at his accomplishment, wondering if he should be teaching those Aurors how to do it on a regular basis, when he'd been cursed from behind. Idiot! How could he have forgotten about Nott? That sadistic bastard was the whole reason he'd there in the first place. That high and obnoxious laughter rang from above him where he lay, his insides boiling even as his vision began to fog, mind getting heavier as he was suddenly rasping. He thought he was on the brink of death, a bit dramatic he admitted to himself, but that was what he was thinking in his last few moments of consciousness. Killed by the man he'd been trying to maim, if not completely destroy.

After agonising over it for days on end the only plausible explanation for his confinement was that he was in protection from the probably still loose and angry Nott. Fantastic. His crap life just kept on getting better and better. He thankfully recalled that his mother was visiting a cousin abroad and so out of danger. He had no idea how long he'd been out of it, but was confident that the Ministry would have informed her about the danger and if she had returned, would be taken care of. As much as he hated to admit anything positive about that damned institution, they did look after their own. Fortunately that now included him. Now he'd sorted out that question, he twisted his lip. The only thing that he couldn't understand was why the Weasel of all people was his nurse.

It was true that he hadn't seen much of any Hogwarts students in a while. His few friends were either dead, locked up or had left the country for better opportunities. Not that he'd miss them much anyway, only Blaise had been worthy of knowing and he was sort of around, trying to rebrand 'Borgin and Burkes' as a respectable antique business, with some success. Of all of his classmates, Ronald Weasely was the least likely to have volunteered to look after him. As far as Draco could remember, they'd never shared one civil word to each other, well, a sincere civil word. All their interactions were based around Potter in some way, always hate-filled. Who would look at that idiot and think, gentle, trustworthy and skilled? It had to either be a very unfunny prank or an extreme clerical error. Weasely looking after him? Insane! Hearing the oaf approach, Draco tried to swallow his distaste and layered on the niceties in order to learn all he could. The door creaked and heavy footsteps approached the bed, the patient suddenly realised that he was holding his breath, body stiff as he faced forward, resisting the urge to turn his head. The endless darkness was so frustrating and if he thought about it, petrifying, that he had to fight to hold on to the low words and try to process them. Although he didn't speak, the urge to ask questions must have been written on his face because his carer sighed and began.

"Well, you've been paid for the Death Eaters you took down…" A small shine of joy came over him when he recalled those idiot Death Eaters, yes, it was very satisfying knowing he'd been paid for getting to see those dumb lackeys knocked out, but his celebrations ended quickly as he remembered that one problem.

"What happened to Nott?" He winced at his hoarse voice but squared his chin to try and reassert power where in truth, he had none. There was a calculated pause; Draco strained to hear the scales creaking in his nurse's head. How much to tell?

"That's why you're in a safe house and not in St Mungo's." The patient sat up a bit from his pillows as he snapped.

"I know that you idiot, what I meant was why didn't he kill me?" More contemplative he went on quietly. "He had a clear shot I was near unconscious, why didn't he just…kill me?"

"Jeez Malfoy, are you suicidal or something?" Gulping down bile the blond breathed in deeply to stop himself from raising his sore voice, making his tone as condescending as possible.

"No Weasel I'm not, although I don't know how I've survived this long in your presence without reaching for the razor!" There was a moment of silence before his nurse began calmly explaining.

"No one knows for sure but the theory is that he was disturbed, when the Aurors came it looked like they'd just missed him. So he hadn't had the time to finish you off." Malfoy blinked, taken aback by this display of self-control from the normally fiery boy. He was so surprised he couldn't answer for a minute, though he managed to close his mouth before it became obvious. Giving up on being witty he grumbled moodily.

"Still managed to fuck me up." It was a bit childish, but he really wanted some reassurance from the un-seeable figure; having not asked any painful questions about what exactly had injured him and if…when it would get better. But there was a small silence, it seemed like the red-head didn't have anything to add so Draco went on, trying to keep his tone uninterested, spewing rubbish he didn't believe. "Anyway, I wouldn't have thought the Ministry would be so thoughtful."

"Just because you're not a Ministry operative doesn't mean they don't' care about your well-being." Annoyed at the placating answer the patient snapped again.

"How nice, so they 'care' about me? That just means I'm useful enough to protect." Ron made a noise that the patient was sure accompanied an ambivalent shrug. And still he said nothing! The blond was picking at straws, trying to get some kind of emotion from the seemingly dead man beside his bed. "So how did you get stuck babysitting? Realised they'd made a mistake at the Academy, did they?" There was a pause before the Auror murmured something about his medication and left the room. Sitting back again, not realising how stiff his muscles were, Draco frowned. It wasn't like the weasel to refuse to rise to any kind of baits, even the weak jabs he'd just offered. That was twice he'd passed up a perfect opportunity to get into a fight. Where had the fire gone? He hated to admit it, but he missed that short and explosive temper. He much preferred it to this new, stoic person. He was so boring! If he had to cope with the filthy tramp as his personal Healer for by the gods knows how long, he might as well have some fun. But the damn weasel had picked now of all times to be mature; typical bad-timing from the incompetent fool. Sighing heavily he tried to relax and let his mind clear, so as to stop the stress that came with too many dark thoughts.

*Can I just note that 'tramp' in British terminology means homeless person, in case you thought Draco considered Ron in any sexual light because he doesn't… yet! :P


	2. Waiting For The Light

Chapter 2 – Waiting For the Light

Draco tired of complete and perpetual darkness very quickly. Within a few days of waking up properly, he was whining about the bandages, complaining of chafing, claustrophobia and some other symptoms that his gruff carer hadn't paid attention to. Of course, he was mostly trying to desperately cover his terrible fear of being so helpless, so dependent; he'd always prided himself on his self-sufficiency, yes he'd had a little help from his father's coffers, but everything he'd achieved had been through his own hard-work and ingenuity. And to be dependent on Weasel of all people! He grumbled, why was he his assigned babysitter anyway? Wasn't he an Auror? Snorting he folded his arms, sneering his head, well he must have been a rubbish one to be relegated to such a low skill task. Though caring for a Malfoy was an honour, especially as Malfoy's hardly ever needed caring for. The only thing the blond really wanted was distraction from the unbearable dullness of his situation and though the Gryffindor wasn't exactly the type for intellectual discussion, there were only so many times he could scratch his growing stubble and drum his fingers on the trays that soon became too heavy just sitting on his lap. It was out of sheer desperation that he'd constantly pester the man to stay and talk more, sometimes deliberately spoiling for an argument to keep himself from going insane. A lot of the time his thinly veiled pleas were ignored, in fact, the only time the Gryffindor would relent was just before sleep, staying with the patient to read him the only text that was in the house, Auror reports.

At first they'd been quite dismal, sending the blond straight into sleep, but then the Auror must have become even more bored of them than the patient because they suddenly became engaging tales about spectacular showdowns and death-defying chases. Half of them were probably made-up, but the patient wasn't about to point this out and risk going back to listening to protocol and stale house calls; plus, he sort of admired the way the weasel told a good story and was impressed that he could just make-up cool action sequences on the spot. Even though he never mentioned his own name, Draco would always put the red-head in the place of the Auror with the best moves and spells; sometimes he could actually visualise the scene and come to think of it…he wondered if the weasel had actually made some of the arrests. No, Weasel an action-hero? Draco shook his head; he could really make himself laugh. Still, this surprising new quality he'd discovered in his old enemy didn't warm him to his mostly silent 'Healer.' All he was grateful for was that they'd managed to find a way to co-habit in relative peace.

…

Not being able to see had certainly exacerbated his often hot and bothered response to people being too near to him. The first time he'd needed the bathroom since waking properly, panic had flooded him. There was no way he could get to the bathroom himself, even if he did know the layout of the house; Weasel would have to help him and he shivered in disgust and shame at that realisation, his skin crawling at the very idea of having to be touched by that dirty ignoramus. So he was relieved beyond words when his need to pee suddenly disappeared. At least the Gryffindor knew how to cast a waste banishment spell, the basic charm used by mediwizards to keep invalid patients clean without the need of physical assistance. Too relived to even be ashamed of the need for the spell, he lay back into the pillows, realising that his skin felt clean too. So no need for awkward sponge baths, Draco began to giggle, almost hysterically, as he pictured that scene; he was definitely glad that wasn't going to happen! A week or so after he woke up properly, however, the nurse began to insist they start 'leg exercises' to make sure he rebuilt strength in his legs. The first time the nurse had said that, Draco had scoffed. What did he mean 'rebuild'? He was thin and wiry yes, but he wasn't without some considerable strength! But he was still blind and unable to stare the red-head down so he reluctantly agreed.

First the Weasel had settled at the end of the bed, pulling the sheets down to fully expose his body in all his pyjama-ed glory. To cover up his embarrassment, the patient might have complained about being cold if the crafty carer hadn't cast a quick warming spell. Cursing this, he tried hard not to blush as that voice, suddenly quiet and a bit embarrassed itself, coughed and began explaining what it was about to do. Determined silence met the end of the awkward collection of syllables so hearing a resigned sigh, Draco felt the weight on the end of the bed shift and warm hands close over his left foot. Slowly, the hands began moving the leg by manipulating the foot back and forth; the patient gasped at the sudden cramps and sharp twinges but the hands didn't stop, slow and careful. Wincing harder, the muscles pinching him cruelly, the patient blinked to try and regain control of himself. The pains didn't improve as the exercises went on, though the stiffness began to ease and it was more bearable.

It had been then that Draco had realised the full extent of his leg injuries. Whilst lying down, he hadn't really noticed the aches and pangs in his muscles more than any other of the bruised and recovering limbs. But then he couldn't ignore how damaged they were. Weasel made an attempt at giving him hope by mentioning that the mediwizards had predicted a full recovery; but he took this comment as a cruel attempt at moral boosting and so dismissed it to stop false hope, he needed to come to terms with his new disability. Oh how his arrogance had crippled him; he cursed his past self, his boyish recklessness, for every twinge in his weakened limb. In the days that followed he was inconsolable. He completely shut the nurse out, snapping and brooding, pushing the clinical, but strangely warm, touches away and wildly lashing out at any attempt to move his dead leg. His depression and stubbornness became so bad that even the red-headed twerp noticed and tried to cheer him up. In idiotic ways, who gets happier through pies or Quidditch matches? Infantile idiot! He snorted pathetically to himself as he remembered the night before when the nurse had come out with.

"Look, the Healers said to wait until your eyes fully healed before trying to walk, so as to not disorientate and alienate you, or something like that…" The patient hadn't dignified such weak reassurance with a reply, jaw wired shut resolutely, arms folded tight across his chest. Shifting, the Gryffindor mumbled. "You'll be fine." Neither spoke further and the patient didn't ask for any stories to send him to sleep that night.

…

It must have been morning because that insufferably cheerful voice suddenly chirped up.

"Today is the day!" Draco was not in the mood.

"What day? Did Potty tell you how much you mean to him? How nice for you." The nurse sounded unfazed by the bitter and childish attack; almost laughing as he said casually.

"Oh you don't want your bandages off? Alright then I'll leave it a few more-"

"Wait!" Hand outstretched in the general direction of the door, the blond tried to look apologetic, his excitement breaking through all other emotions spilling out over his face. The floorboards creaked and he felt the other body's heat radiate towards him; warm hands gently untied the binds. Body tense as he felt those bands of material being unravelled, the patient held his breath, wanting nothing more than to see something. Finally the last bandage fell away to reveal…A dark grey. Squinting worriedly, Draco wondered if the idiot had chosen night-time for the big moment before he realised, no, this was how his eyes were. There was still darkness; it was lighter, blurry now instead of clearly black, but still… He blinked a few times, focusing hard and not managing to clear any of the fogginess. The backs of his eyes started to ache with the effort, and he winced, feeling the starts of tears building. He turned his head and almost gasped as he saw a flash of red. Focusing his stare on the colour, he was mesmerized by it for a moment, before looking around again. But no, apart from the fierce red and a smudge of pink beneath it, the rest of the world was just different shades of hazy grey.

Recognising disappointment, the head of red-hair spoke reassuringly.

"It takes time; your eyes are still adjusting to the treatment." Pouting, he deliberately turned his head away from the red blob, folding his arms across his chest. Stupid…stupid Gryffindor! Only when he heard the door shut quietly did he reluctantly let those impatient tears leak.

…

That night was spent mostly muttering darkly and cursing under his breath. Why? Why had he been robbed of this growing hope, this light in the fathomlessly dark tunnel? A cruel metaphor, he almost snorted, almost laughed at himself, at his own pretentiousness; but he didn't. He couldn't laugh. Oh Gods, what was going to become of him? Would he be a useless cripple the rest of his life? He was too young for that, he had been…so…it wasn't fair! Slowly, he fell asleep, feeling wretchedness in his bleak future.

However, as the dawn came he felt hope balloon in his stomach; he could tell where light was coming from, just not see it as he remembered. In a strange haze he watched the crack of sunlight grow slowly brighter as the room lightened with it; when the baboon came in and opened the curtains fully, it was like a blast from the Heavens, an imaginary choir belted out a triumphant note in his head. Only just able to contain his lips from pulling upwards, he remained silent until the nurse left and he let out a big breath. Turning his weak eyes towards the light tentatively, he felt the warmth of it on his face and his small hope expanded softly.

He was able to mark the passing of the days more easily with the brilliant light of the sun and even began to follow the path of the beams of light throughout the room. Peacefully, he'd watch the shadows shorten and then stretch out, almost leisurely, as the day went on and night fell; with the shadows came the shapes that formed them. There was some sort of table or desk against the wall where the door was, opposite his bed – which was a reasonably sized single with vague adornments protruding from the legs – was what must have been a dresser with a table-top mirror, he could tell from how the light would sometimes reflect back to him. Colours were vague and he stopped trying to discern them, twisting his mouth in frustration and closing his eyes, attempting to control his urge to strop; it was no mean feat to appear cool and detached with the oaf lumbering about. When he became bored with his observations of the room, the patient would sometimes listen to his carer as he moved about the house, and didn't he make a racket. His footsteps coming up the stairs were heavy and uneven, he couldn't even walk properly! And the attempts to cheer him up kept on persisting lamely, awkward at times, others less forced and natural but they still were un-responded to. Once the idiot had actually placed a tentatively hand on his arm, the nerve! The patient had recoiled and shook it off, staring as disgustedly as he could at the shapeless bed of fire hovering to his right. Draco didn't wonder why the only colour he could see clearly was the fierce red of his reluctant nurse.

Over the course of a week, he began seeing more than he let on; sometimes when he blinked and squinted, clear edges would appear and dissolve again, frustrating him. But he wouldn't tell his findings to the oaf, who still insisted on feeding him despite the patient's belief that he could do it himself. He won the argument one night, and even though the stern nurse sat beside him, no doubt staring with his formless eyes, Draco managed to spoon the gruel into his mouth without too much need for the soft napkin to wipe up any stains. He felt a smug grin stretch itself across his lips, causing a few grumblings from the carer but no further comments.

…

Then one magical day, he opened his eyes, took in the blurriness and blinked. He froze. His vision…he could see sharp outlines, his eyes were focusing properly. The bad painting across from him, above the mirror on the dresser, was of a tired looking cow, the frame cracked and worn and a faded dark green. The wallpaper, he also noted, was dull but not filthy and was mostly intact. Turning his head to the window he squinted slightly in the bright sunlight, lips twitching, pulling themselves upwards as he saw the blue and gold on the other side of the clear pane. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky, Gods, he could see the sky; and the sun, the sun was there too. For a while he'd thought he'd never see those things again, never see anything again. He couldn't help it, lips stretching in genuinely surprise, pleasure, happiness. His sensitive ears picked up footsteps approaching and his joy peaked.

Excited, he turned to the opening door, now able to pick out the grains of the wood, the different shades of brown and even a few dents and nicks in the finish; his tall, red-headed nurse entered and he opened his mouth to share the good news. Seeing the happy smile and focused eyes, the Weasel lifted his own lips and stepped further into the room as the patient's eyes further adjusted he was unable to stop his horrified cry.

"I can finally see-Gods! What happened to your face?"


	3. Regaining Feeling

Chapter 3 – Regaining Feeling

His stomach fell. He was an idiot. How rude had he been to just…blurt like that, especially something so insensitive. But it really had been a shock. Instead of the pale and gormless and pure face he remembered, the marble skin was broken by a thick red slash cutting diagonally from above his right eyebrow across the top of his nose and down his left cheek. At first he thought it had been a knife wound or maybe from a Sectemsempra curse, but as he stared in horror he realised that it looked like a kind of burn-line. He couldn't comprehend how it could have happened. The razor sharpness of the slash made him shiver even as his stomach dropped in shame at his outburst. To his relief and surprise, the lean lips curved upwards as the man barely broke his stride, setting some potion down on the bedside table.

"Fully healed then?" Leaning forward, undeterred by the patient recoiling involuntarily, Ron used his wand to flash some light across the pupils, watching the reactions. Draco whined and muttered darkly but let the part-time nurse do his job. He wasn't fooled by the obvious avoidance of the subject but wasn't sure whether to let it slide or if he was curious enough to push for an answer. His elation subdued, he gulped and didn't say anything more; though as Weasely busied himself measuring out the potion he sneaked another glance at the horrendous scar. He hadn't been mistaken, it was a straight line, curving only to the contours of that pale face, so much paler now contrasted with an angry crimson slash. The skin around the wound, as thick as a finger, was raised, slight blistering; it looked painful. What had happened? What could have caused it? The patient hadn't even realised that the nurse had become still before those deep, deep blue eyes locked onto his own, blinking he gulped and then saw the hand offering him his medication. The blond seemed to be frozen so sighing, the nurse folded his arms.

"If you must know, I had a run-in with a few Death Eaters and one of them must have been taking lessons from Crabbe because they started a Fiendfyre and, well, I wasn't quick enough…" He'd said it all quite quickly without looking at the patient. It was bullshit and they both knew it, Draco almost scoffing at how inaccurate the lie was; how would a Fiendfyre cause a deliberate slash mark across someone's face? It would completely burn the whole thing off! The whole two sentence story was utter crap. But he knew better than to ask again, the liar was treating him unnecessarily kindly, despite his complaints; so he took the potion and didn't say anything.

…

Since he'd fully regained his eyesight, his carer didn't hold back in his cajoling for the patient to get up and move around; he was almost like Professor McGonagall, so stern and uncompromising. When had Weasley ever been stern? It was unnerving. The blond reluctantly started with sitting up on his own, muscles creaking and protesting but eventually obeying his mind; all of this suffering under those eagle eyes. Once he'd mastered that they moved onto testing his weight on his legs; this he was actually eager to do, desperate to stand up in order to lessen the feeling of being so helpless. Draco gritted his teeth but listened closely to the nurse's instructions, hating it but knowing he had to, he had taken the oaf's large and calloused hand – what had he been doing to the poor things? – to help aid him as he finally let his legs take his whole weight. In short, he collapsed. His legs buckled and he fell onto that hard chest, arms desperately wrapping around Ron for support. He felt like a rag doll, completely weak; he hated it. Thankfully, the red-head didn't comment and the blond couldn't bring himself to say anything, insult or snide remark. Carefully, they worked together to get him upright and tried again.

After standing comfortably on his own, that took a good few hours, the next step was to shuffle awkwardly along, hands scrabbling at the bed posts to stop himself falling painfully. This, the Weasel insisted, he do completely on his own. Fiercely bitter, the Slytherin instantly missed the comforting, if insanely irritating, support. Why did the lazy git insist on dirtying up his hands only to retreat at the most difficult part? You would have thought that he needed to ease into movement slowly and carefully. But no, apparently he had to do this bit on his own: indifferent bastard. There he was struggling painfully and that bloody Weasel was pretty much reclining in his seat, long legs stretched out before him and casually turning the pages of his magazine. The minutes dragged out torturously as the invalid wobbled and shuffled another few pigeon steps. Gods above give him strength! Eying the git angrily, he felt the need to fire that dumb brain in gear somehow. At his frustrated cough the nonchalant Healer flipped another page and without looking up hummed a questioning enquiry.

"A little help?" Those infuriating blue eyes glanced up and a flash of obnoxious amusement passed over those torn features before he returned to his read with a wave of the hand.

"You're doing fine." Another growl from the invalided man and he carried on casually. "Anyway, you need to learn to do it on your-" He jumped up, dropping the magazine and grabbing a flailing arm as Draco's leg buckled and he fell forward. A little shocked to find himself falling into his nurse's chest instead of the floor, again, the patient gulped, the sensors on his skin tingling almost furiously as he felt dizzy. Then he realised that strong arms were curved around his chest and he was half way to suffocating in the hurricane of confusion and warmth. Coughing erratically, his throat dry, he staggered up, only vaguely resenting the firm hands on his arms. For a few seconds, the pair just stood there, facing each other in that small room, breathing. Draco was and wasn't aware of that warm touch lingering on his skin, the puff of air from just above him and the, the sheer warmth of that still, solid figure in front of him; he was staring determinedly at the faded shirt rising and deflating almost as quickly as his own. Before he could ponder why the Weasel should be so out-of-breath, the hands dropped from his arms and he was abandoned for the chair again. Draco closed his eyes to compose himself and to make sure he wasn't distracted before reaching out and carrying on.

That little episode had caused havoc in his head and infuriatingly, he found himself in that strangely pleasant mess quite often. It happened whenever they were close; Weasel would lean over him in his bed to collect the dinner tray and he'd catch a whiff of his scent and feel lightheaded, he'd trip or buckle and strong arms would catch him, a solid chest his pillow, that intriguing smell filling his nose and his mind. What was it about Weasel's scent that he recognised? Why was he so…so…interesting? No, that wasn't it. Oh, damn him! Dammit! This was his fault somehow! That bloody smell, what was it? What was it that had reduced him to a whimpering schoolgirl? Snorting breathily, the patient crossed his arms moodily and laid back in his bed. He was sick of thinking about it and tried to get some sleep. Tried.

…

"So how come none of your loser friends ever visit?" It was another day and as per usual, his nurse was sitting in a chair beside the bed, flipping through a three year-old copy of Quidditch Weekly and ignoring the whines from the exhausted patient. Getting to the loo and back had taken a hell of a lot of effort, half the day in fact! The patient unconsciously pouted, irritated that he'd had to resort to schoolboy taunts to get attention. Gut twisting inexplicably before releasing as the crumpled magazine moved slightly, a page being turned, Draco bit back a doomed sigh. Gods, he daren't think of how old that copy would be when he got out of the damned room. Finally, the excruciating silence was broken by a bored tone.

"This is a safe house Malfoy, no one except myself and the Director knows where it is." Blinking, the patient ventured.

"No one?" A beat, and then a steady, but forced, reply.

"No one." Sitting still, back rigid and eyes roaming uncomfortably, the blond couldn't help himself.

"But don't you… doesn't Potty at least floo, or write?" He only half-listened to Weasley's explanation about breaches in security before he ventured through an uncomfortable silence. "Must be lonely." The Auror finally looked up and straight into Draco's newly working eyes. They held each other's gaze for a long moment, the room contracting around them. The blond really looked into that familiar face; tired and pale and, older, rougher than he remembered from all those lifetimes ago, it was the face of a man. _My, Weasely's a man now, when had that happened?_ Finally the blue eyes looked away, focused on the open page but not actually reading it. Instead of the gruff and bravo response that was expected, came a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah." Both men sat in uncomfortable silence, both of their pretences stripped away. It was strange, but Draco hadn't yet felt as vulnerable as he did now, strange as how now it was his carer that was laid out and weak but he still felt exposed himself.

"How long was I out?" There was a pregnant pause in which neither looked at the other.

"About a week and a bit…I wasn't really counting." Somehow, the patient knew this to be a lie, he knew that from the half-beard the red-head had helped him shave a few days before. He knew how long his facial hair took to grow. It had to have been a month at least. Draco suppressed a random shiver. As if sensing that he hadn't been believed, the nurse stood abruptly, features grimacing briefly before falling calm again. "Anyway, I'm gonna go make some lunch." Still a little subdued from his uncomfortable discoveries, the blond didn't groan about how much he hated the cheese sandwiches, which seemed to be in endless supply, and just sat quietly. But…

Blinking, he watched Weasley walking away, almost in horror. He wasn't walking, he was limping, severely, his right leg curved ever so slightly inwards at the knee, shaking a little as he put weight on it. Though he didn't break his stride, the whole leg looked stiff. Eyes staring long after the figure had turned the corner and the footsteps had faded, he sat back, mind whirling. How hadn't he noticed that before? Well, the tremor in his leg was subtle, and Draco hadn't ever actively watched him walking, he was usually preoccupied with his own legs. Biting his lip he felt his stomach grow heavy. It hadn't just been the Auror's face that had been injured. He'd been…well, it looked like he'd been crippled. He couldn't even walk without limping, Draco guessed that ruled out running or fighting or anything remotely Auror-like. So he was recovering too, that's why he was playing babysitter, because he'd become temporarily useless.

As well as relieved to finally understand the reasoning for the choice of carer, for the first time, he felt an affinity to the red-head. He wasn't naïve, he'd always known that in fact, they hadn't been so different, having to live up to impossible legacies with a definite lack of self-confidence. He almost smiled. But then he went cold as he thought about how the ex-Auror could have sustained such injuries. It would have taken quite a curse to cause damage like that, especially after treatment – Draco knew firsthand how the mediwizards at St Mungo's could work wonders. So either the Department had made Weasley go straight from a battle to babysitting without so much of a going over, which was so uncharacteristic of the Department that he almost laughed at the idea, or they'd tried to heal it completely and had failed. Draco's head swam. The more he thought about it, the less likely it was that the limp and facial scar had been caused by wild curses from a battle. They seemed precise, almost maliciously targeted and…well, done slowly. He sat up, his body coming alive with the realisation in his head. Mouth opening soundlessly, he blinked a few times, fingers twisting in the sheets as he tried to process the horrible thought.

In short, it was looking likely that Ron had been tortured. The idea made his insides freeze and almost crack as he shivered. No. No he might be wrong. He gulped and wrapped his arms around his stomach. It was a stupid, he was being overdramatic; he didn't have any real evidence to work out what had happened.

And even if…even Ron's current injuries could be fixable, maybe the mediwizards hadn't failed, the Auror was still in recovery. Yes, that was plausible. As he was still getting better and improving since the…whatever had happened, he was assigned a babysitting job until he could go into the field again. Half-satisfied with his vague answer, he lay back into his bed again, biting his lip again. But at the same time, it hadn't looked like something that someone could recover from. Grunting angrily, he forced his mind to stop thinking about it; he knew that Ron would never give him a solid answer so why bother? Why was he even thinking about the stupid man anyway? They weren't friends, he didn't give a flying fuck about him. Lying down, he listened to the clinks of cutlery from downstairs, holding back tears.


End file.
